


ICQ

by discocalypse



Category: TWRP | Tupper Ware Remix Party (Band)
Genre: Gen, inhuman keytar maneuvers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 18:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8678293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/discocalypse/pseuds/discocalypse
Summary: Two assholes peacock for the attention of a concert-goer.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I... Originally wasn't going to post this here because I find it rather embarrassing. But I did want to prove I'm still writing, and for this fandom specifically, despite a lack of updates.
> 
> So here's a fun, quick little thing I did by request on tumblr that worked unnecessarily hard on.
> 
> Request Contents: REQUEST! ^^ DOC AND MEOUCH TRY DESPERATELY TO PICK UP GIRL, BASICALLY TRYING TO OUT GROOVE EACH OTHER. WOULD BE AWESOME IF DURING A GIG/SONG (ICQ) THEY KEEP TRYING TO GET HER ATTENTION. IT DOESN'T EVEN HAVE TO BE WHEN THEY'RE PERFORMING, HAHA. - ALLYYOUNG

In this position, the prickle of sweat bubbling towards the fabric of his jumpsuit sent shivers down Doc’s spine. He felt the moisture collect as it descended toward the small of his back, but chose to ignore it for now. It was essential his attention was collected solely toward the task at hand. Bare fingers pounded the controls of his talkbox as he precisely toggled the pitches of his voice according to plan. His chest heaved as he projected his tone into the rubber tubing clenched behind his right molars. The left corner of his mouth was upturned confidently as his gaze unseen shifted toward the Commander at stage right. Though the bulk of their performances had been planned to the letter, there was no way that smug asshole could one-up what Sung had in store for him–

No, for the Babe.

A lascivious tongue weaved between Meouch’s teeth as he hunched forward, pointing the neck of his bass guitar toward the crowd. With his foot perched atop the rightmost amp, his sharp eyes narrowed, allowing him to peer across the sea of jumping party-goers with ease. His pupils turned to slits as he searched for her, quickly rounding in dilation as he’d honed in on her smiling features. He couldn’t stop himself from licking his chops, slapping the bottom of his bass and tilting it back into a comfortable position. His eyes locked with hers, those of a predator, as he’d circled back to his berth at stage left. He could just feel the weight that annoying prick’s goddamn stare at the back of his head. It just pissed him off, to think that–

A golden helmet bobbed into his vision, followed by the distorted feedback loop of his shoulder ramming into equipment. Meouch tucked his chin, looking down into the visor. Behind it, he noticed Phobos’ brow wrinkle with rare annoyance. Though neither had stopped playing, their glances had practically become a conversation. Phobos’ airlock released in what could only have been described as a sigh, causing Meouch a grumble as they’d concluded their shifts.

From the corner of his eye, he caught pointed glances from the silent guitarist, and his percussive friend. He sunk into himself, pulling at the strings with his fingers a bit harder than he knew he should, as Havve begun to square up at his drumkit behind him. A threat. The booming strikes of the snare rattled through his chest, becoming a warning to keep cool or else. From the keys, he swore he heard a laugh, despite Sung’s lips being fixed into a confident grin.

While Meouch had been preoccupied with the ire of his band mates, Sung had been productive. In his hands was cradled Fuckthrust, and all her signs of wear. With his thumb, he smoothed down a strip of blistered duct tape, silently pleading with himself not to repeat the mistakes of the infamous MAGFest snafu. With a practiced jerk, her strap cleared his cone nicely, coming to settle itself around the curves of his neck as he’d expected. So far so good.

“Alright, folks!” His body slunk around the staff of the microphone as he gripped it, speaking into it with all the air in his lungs. His free hand settled the keytar on his bent knee. “Here’s a little somethin’-somethin’ I’ve been workin’ pretty diligently at. I don’t know if you’re ready for it, but you’re gonna have to be!”

Not knowing what to expect, the crowd simmered down, all for a few excited yelps. If only he’d figured out a better material to create his visor from… Then maybe he could watch her face, he thought. But that didn’t matter. There was no way her eyes weren’t fixed to him now.

Taking a step away from his equipment, Doctor Sung hunched into a crouch, his back nearly parallel with the stage. His hands firmly gripped Fuckthrust, for what might have been the last time, had this gamble not worked out. He hesitated a moment, to bite his lip and rethink his decision, but there was no backing out at this point. His hands propelled the keytar forward. It made a revolution, as it normally did, with no hitches. It remained attached, which was more than half the battle, but he didn’t stop there. 

Increasing the torque, he used the heel of his left hand to increase the speed, sending Fuckthrust over his back for a second time. And then a third.

The friction created made his shoulder sear as he’d finally caught the instrument in the air. With no time to be amazed, he hammered through his solo, sweat pouring into his stinging eyes. The frenzied cheering of the crowd was only a haze to him, as his thoughts were only a loop of ‘HOLY FUCK BRO. YOU DID THAT SHIT.’

“Thank you! We are Tupper Ware Remix Party! Good night!”

\----------

Shoulder to shoulder, Sung and Meouch burst from the green room’s narrow entrance way and out into the crowd. Though Sung had decidedly won the battle, the next one was only about to begin. The space pirate threw a wily elbow toward the Doctor in an attempt to topple him. Instead, it connected toward a force that held it in place.

“Fucking let go of me, Havve! I’m gonna lose her!”

The cyborg responded in kind by not fucking letting go of him. Instead he squeezed harder, pressing his throatback against his collar.

“SHE LEFT. PERHAPS SHE’D FOUND YOU TWO CHUCKLEHEADS AS FUCKING INSUFFERABLE AS THE REST OF US DO.”

The lion’s features contorted into a snarl, his fingers tangling with his mane in frustration. He snatched his arm away roughly, pointing an irate finger into Havve’s personal bubble. This dill hole needed to know his place, and Commander Meouch was about to tell him. He sucked in a body full of air.

“…Then where’s Lord Phobos?” Sung spoke up, interrupting his actions. 

Hogan’s stance relaxed, his arms moving across his chest as he motioned toward the exit with the top of his head.

“GUESS.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any plot bunnies you don't know how to use, ideas you don't know how to expand, requests or suggestions - Please let me know on Tumblr via my ask box! You can find me @HavveHogan!


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